Ice
by SkyKissed
Summary: AU, some spoilers for finale. Their new world, their fresh start, had burned around them, ash coloring the sky not so dissimilarly as the snow does now. Everything had come down. Despite this, Taylor finds comfort in one light hearted moment.


**A/N: **Done based on one of Zoe's prompts for the Livejournal winter fic battle. The prompt was, and it's very specific mind you, ice skating. It got away from me so it's a bit longer than I originally intended, but hopefully it meets the requirments. :D

This is set in an A/U in which, after Lucas and crew take Terra Nova, Taylor and the rest of the Terra Novans are on the run, for at least a few months, before retaking the place.

* * *

><p><strong>Ice<strong>

* * *

><p>The seasonal variation of their new world never ceases to amaze him. While warm and pleasant during the summer months, and remarkably temperate during the spring and occasionally fall, the winters are certainly something to see. Tiny flecks of white drift lazily on waves of air, joining the thick coating on the ground. For the most part it's unmarred, lending an impossible serenity to the scene, all white, clean and unblemished. The cool air nips at the exposed skin of his face, reddens his cheeks.<p>

It's beautiful, but he finds the beauty impossible to take solace in when his people are milling about uselessly in the snow, huddled together in their hastily erected shelters in a desperate attempt to remain warm. Taylor sighs heavily, runs a hand through his hair. It's longer now, a little shaggier than he'd like it. They're all a little worse for wear. Comes with being homeless, he supposes.

It's been a little over three months since Lucas stormed the colony gates, his soldiers moving in with enviable aplomb. Their new world, their fresh start, had burned around them, ash coloring the sky not so dissimilarly as the snow does now. Everything had come down.

He'd lost men that day, more than he cares to remember. He'd lost the lives of those who trusted him implicitly with their safety…and he'd failed them. Has failed them. In the end, the only reason they escape is Mira; the Sixer leader see's the destruction, the carnage and finds it's something even she can't stomach. However desperately she loves her daughter she cannot justify condemning hundreds to similar fates. Unlike Lucas, simple revenge cannot be used as a catch all excusing the murder of innocents.

Of the original thousand settlers, there are less than a hundred.

He tries to ignore the sharp jolt of pain that accompanies the thought.

The jungle is eerily silent, no birds, no predators. For the most part their reptilian neighbors spend the winter in hibernation; it's one of the few blessings being OTG in the dead of winter. They can count dinosaurs off the list of potential threats. And he won't lie; it's…pleasant, being away from the cacophony of camp, the omnipresent groaning. He's tired; they're all tired. And where once his excursions had been simply for pleasure they are now requisite if he is to remain sane.

And so Commander Taylor, once of Terra Nova, prowls the frozen jungle, revels in the silence, in the natural beauty surrounding him, tries not to focus on the memories that haunt his waking hours as often as his sleep. Wanders without destination, without purpose, never really remaining in any one place too long (he tells himself it's because he needs to burn energy, keep moving, and not because he's terrified if he stops he simply won't have the strength to continue).

He does pause, however, when he brushes aside a particularly stubborn bit of foliage, snow and ice joining the fabric of his gloves. Without the branch the path opens into a small glen, enclosed on all sides by a protective ring of trees. During the summer months a stream runs through, joins a rather sizable pond. The frigid temperatures have frozen both, the icy surface glimmering in the morning light, refracting it at charming angles.

Something about the sight is appealing, breathtaking, urges him forward. He should head back to camp (he hadn't checked with Shannon or Wash before taking his leave; if he knows either of them they're halfway panicked and tearing the place apart by now) but cannot stop his legs from urging him forward. Runs a hand across the smooth surface, smiles as his glove comes away slick with moisture.

Gingerly, he sets one foot and then the other on the ice. When it holds his weight he takes a tentative step forward. And then another, and then another.

* * *

><p>By the time he finally returns to camp its well after dark and the omnipresent noise has died down to a more tolerable level. As social as they are, few individuals dare the biting cold that accompanies nights in the wilderness. He gives the lone patrol a curt nod before sliding into his own tent.<p>

With the miserable cold and no discernable method of heating everyone, they've relapsed to good old fashioned methods of keeping warm. Blankets and body heat. They hadn't really discussed it but somehow it was almost a given that Wash would end up staying with him. He had no one, she had no one, and they've been friends long enough for neither to concern themselves with the others proximity. It's nearly a month before it crosses the line from platonic to something else (she pushes and he doesn't resist), her lips seeking his almost desperately in the dark. They'd both been too busy to ever effectively deal with the loss of Terra Nova. The dam, every wall they've put around themselves, the shows of strength for the surviving members of the colony, comes crashing down the moment she finds him.

It's awkward (in the grand scheme of things their tent offers little protection from the rest of the survivors) and frenetic (a coping mechanism, they're aware, both still trying to justify their losses) and barely feels like them. It isn't some desperate declaration of love (they both remain uncharacteristically silent through the whole of the ordeal, silently agreeing words are pointless in such situations and will call them back to their senses which neither wishes to deal with) , it isn't some romantic revelation. It's simply exhaustion, mourning, a shared sense of loss over their home, an attempt to comfort when neither can offer the appropriate words. A desire for release, _any_ release, after the constant pressure, the constant attention, of the last month. Kisses tinged with regret, something else that tastes of surrender. She chokes back something dangerously close to a sob as he moves inside her, buries face in the crook of his neck to muffle the sound as she holds him to her. He refrains from commenting, for her pride and for the fact that his own face is moist with tears. Humanity has blown its second chance at life, at redemption, and neither is idealistic enough (_naïve_ enough) to think they merit a third. It's as much a shared feeling of loss for their species as it is their home.

After weeks of futile planning, dealing with equally disillusioned civilians, and hopes consistently dashed, their interludes are the bittersweet highlights. After those moments, he doesn't move away from her, and if his weight gives her troubles she never voices it, simply wraps her limbs about him, holds him. It's despicable, to both of them, to permit themselves this fragility, this comfort, but neither attempt to stop it. Because if they have to take solace somewhere it might as well be in each other (and both are painfully aware that they would neither seek nor except if from anyone, or anything, else).

So when he enters the tent he isn't surprised to find a shapeless sort of mass on the floor. Wash is already there, cocooned in their shared blankets, her dark hair splayed across her shoulders, falling across her face. She thinner now (and he'd be lying if he said it didn't worry him; her strength remains and he can feel the muscle beneath his hands but…somehow it's different. As if she might break), her countenance more often severe and she sleeps…terribly rarely. He's almost surprised to find her here now instead of pacing, pouring over maps of their old home, calculating and recalculating their odds of survival. When he slides in behind her she stirs, her military training still razor sharp and only amplified by their tenuous situation.

"Hey," she mumbles, and the words run together a bit, the sound more throaty and half aware then she might use if she were entirely awake; he chuckles, places a kiss to the underside of her jaw. His lieutenant doesn't return the gesture, simply turns in his arms, adjusts the blankets to better conceal him as well and curls against him, attempting to remedy the disparities in their respective body heat. He's joked to her, more times than once, that the only reasons she's willing to shack up with him is his temperature. He runs warm (always has), she's consistently cool. It's a comfortable arrangement, suited for any and every climate, but his words always earn him a scowl. She nuzzles her nose against his cheek and he can feel her smile, "Welcome back."

It's a more temperate response then he'd been expecting and for this he's grateful. He doesn't tell her about the lake or his other discovery (Wash hates surprises and so he maintains to keep this one from her) and offers a simple, "Lost track of time."

She hums her agreement; Wash knows better than most that he hates being idle, hates simply waiting here when they should be retaking their home, should be fighting. Each day of it, each day of this _cowardice_, brings him a step closer to insanity, and so she does not question his sojourns. He smiles when she slides her hands (impossibly damn cold hands) beneath the fabric of his shirt, traces the familiar musculature there, "You're lucky. I was about ten minutes away from asking the Shannon's if I could bunk with them tonight."

"You think the Doc would let you near her boys?"

"Maybe not," She shakes her head, the motion surprisingly cheerful considering the dread covering the camp like a shroud, breath warm against his neck, "But I've been assured I can be fairly persuasive when I'm cold."

"I'm well aware." It earns him a chuckle and a fleeting kiss.

She trails her fingers absently along his back, nails only just grazing. It's a surprisingly soothing gesture, one she developed not long into their relationship. He's come to recognize it as a sort of nervous reaction, something she instinctively falls into when she's troubled and the thought charms him more than it should, "Something happen today?"

"Mira," and the name carries with it all sorts of connotations, begrudgingly respect mixed the still present loathing, neither gaining purchase over the other. It leaves her with an amusingly torn expression, "Thinks we should move camp again."

"It's been less than a week."

"I know," she sighs, those fascinating amber eyes tired, surprisingly alight in the darkness of their shelter, "And I don't know how the hell she's getting her intel but…we can't afford to be wrong in this."

_We._ One word, such a simple thing, and it has yet to lose its thrill, "The people aren't going to like it."

"When do they ever?"

And isn't that the truth. He scowls, and she brushes her nose against his chin. Because they're running again, always running, unable to turn and fight the mercenaries that nip at their heels. And it's slowly killing him. And that's slowly killing her. "You hate this." _I'm sorry, Nathaniel. _It's another one of those things that remains unspoken between them.

Taylor nods, speaks against the skin of her forehead, "Nothing for it, Wash." _Don't try and take the blame for this. It wasn't you. _He sighs, mind already running through the protocol required, how and where they can possibly go, a million little things to survive and only one needed to fail. The pressure is not something he's unfamiliar with (he's been a leader his entire life, if anything the stress is a constant companion) but…

For one impossible moment he simply smiles, forces the worries to mute to a tolerable hum in the back of his conscious mind, shunted aside to deal with during the subsequent hours, gives Wash's hip an affectionate squeeze, "Something I want to show you before we move out."

"Another treasure from one of your escapades, sir?"

"Just something I think you'll like."

When he doesn't offer anything else, she chuckles, settles herself down to sleep, "Alright then, be mysterious. I'm going to sleep."

It's hopelessly cliché, but he takes no small degree of comfort listening to his lieutenant, his friend, whatever she is to him now (because it's difficult to find one exact word that encompasses every role she plays in his life), breathing. It slowly evens out, becomes faint till he knows she sleeps.

He watches her for a few moments after she's dozed off, finds it oddly soothing.

He isn't aware of it, but he's the only man she's ever permitted remain with her while she sleeps. The only one she's trusted implicitly enough to leave herself so exposed to.

* * *

><p>The next morning, amidst all the chaos that comes with every move, he takes her arm, pulls her aside. It earns him a look from both the Shannon's. Before he can think better of it, he's motioning them over as well. If anything's been made clear through the whole of this it's that they're trustworthy. And more than that, he counts them among his very carefully guarded circle of friends.<p>

"Something up?" Jim drops his tone as if curious as to the nature of their meeting. Things are rarely so cloak and dagger and, as a rule, Taylor is never subtle when it comes to the preservation of his people. It leaves him unable to deduce what might have come over their leader.

"The Lieutenant and I will be gone awhile, Shannon. Some business we need to conduct a ways away from here."

The cop glances between the woman and her commanding officer, frowns when she shrugs, "All due respect, sir, we could use you here. And if you're intending to head into danger…"

"Mira can handle the move and there's nothing dangerous about it."

Wash smirks at her friend, "He said he found something he wanted to show me."

"Oh?" he grins, "Something pretty, Commander?"

"Stop your laughing, Shannon, I'd hate to regret letting you stick with us."

The warning is blithely ignored; he waggles his brows suggestively at Alicia, "_That_ means it's something pretty." The fact that she simply nods in entirely too amused agreement does not go unnoticed. Traitor; mans a bad influence on his straight laced second (and it isn't the least bit amusing that he can't even say the words seriously in his head, let alone aloud).

Elisabeth rolls her eyes at the pair of them, offers a smile that somehow manages to makes it to her eyes. The good doctor is showing signs of exhaustion as well, not as used to the rigors of travels as the other three are. She is handling the added strain with more grace than nearly any could manage, "You'll forgive me if I'm imposing on anything, but would it bother you if Jim and I were to tag along? I would love to be away from the camp, if only for a little while." Because the noise is slowly driving her mad as well, chaos where she demands order and entirely against everything she's set as the cornerstones of her universe. No logic, no order, no stability, nothing.

Taylor can't bring himself to take this brief reprieve away from her. "Just follow me, Doc." He offers his arm, and she chuckles before taking it, tucks her hand in the crook of his elbow.

Jim and Wash exchange glances before the former smirks, offers her a mock bow and extends his arm. She smacks him (and it's so light a touch that is can't be anything other than teasing) in the chest before marching after the duo. Shannon does throw a glance behind them however, "Think we should tell someone we're leaving?"

"Depends."

"On?"

"How badly you want to risk getting pulled back in there."

He blanches, "Nevermind. I'm sure Mira's got it."

* * *

><p>By the time they arrive at the glade, Elisabeth has traded Taylor's arm for her husband's and the two are happily chattering with one another. Occasionally, she'll chuckle, and Jim nearly always embraces her when she does, as if he's unable to resist the sound. He'll just as often lean into to her, press an unhurried kiss to her temple. It's an easy comfort they share, their affection obvious.<p>

Wash threads her fingers with his own and it momentarily causes him pause. It's the first time she's done such a thing, simple as it is, without the cover of darkness, without the solitude of their tent. It's pleasant, however, and he finds he has no desire to push her away, so he simply gives her hand a quick squeeze and makes no more of it. If the suddenly heated whispers behind them are anything to go by, the Shannon's have chosen not to do the same.

The ice spreads out in front of them, still lovely and unmarred and the catch in his companions breath at the sight warms him.

"It's beautiful," Elisabeth breathes.

"Haven't seen anything like it in…" Shannon can't really find a time. _Ever_, he supposes. They'd had snow in the future, and snow when he was growing up but nothing so…pure. Nothing lacking pollutants, nothing they could enjoy without a rebreather separating them from the winter air. It makes him feel, and he hates to use the term, young. "You outdid yourself, Commander." He claps the older man's shoulder.

"What do you think, Wash?"

She shakes her head, unable to hold back the smile. Even a soldier hardened by war can't help but soften and she's no exception, "I don't think I can offer anything that hasn't already been said, sir."

"Try."

She bites her lip, settles for, "Thank you."

It's a strange answer, but he doesn't question it.

* * *

><p>It takes Jim all of five minutes to grow tired of standing on the shore and out onto the frozen surface he goes. He slides rather comically about for a while but never actually falls. The soft soled boots they've taken to wearing are rather well suited for this and allow him to slide around effectively enough in the absence of skates. When he has a decent enough handle on it he returns to them, extends his arms (and a rakish smile) to his wife.<p>

Elisabeth's eyes widen, "You must be joking."

"C'mon, it's fun."

"It's suicide!"

"See, that sounds like an exaggeration." He reaches out and finds she isn't half as unwilling as she pretends, pulls her into his arms. He stays still for a moment, allows her to find her balance, "There we are. How's that? Nothing bad's happened."

"Ooh, not yet," she mutters, "And who's going to set all those broken bones of yours when I catch my death sliding madly about on some frozen pond?"

"Wash there's a medic. She'll fix me up. Isn't that right, Wash?"

The woman still safely on the shore shakes her head, "Fight your own battles, Shannon."

If he mouths the word "_traitor_" neither of them comment on it. Despite her vocal outcry, Elizabeth does not move to get off the ice or away from her husband. She's perhaps less coordinated but it doesn't take long before she has the hang of it. It escapes none of them that even still she remains comfortably within the circle of her mate's arms, reveling in his proximity and the simplest quite, the beauty, which is now so rare in their lives.

Taylor again tests the solidity of the ice before setting his weight on it. It still holds. He quickly finds his balance and then turns to regard his lieutenant, the sole member of their party still on shore. Her brow is quirked at an angle that suggest she's infinitely amused with the situation and half wondering if they haven't lost their minds.

"Well, c'mon out, Wash, ice is fine."

She tosses her head at that, chuckles because somehow his words are impossibly light hearted when they have no right being so, "Is this what you were doing yesterday? Ice skating?"

"Something along those lines," He smirks, unable to deny the absurdity of the statement. "Get out here, lieutenant."

Wash purses her lips in a way that indicates she's almost willing to refuse him just to see his reaction. From the displeased set of his jaw, he's well aware of her train of thought. It's enough to get her to relinquish it. With more caution than strictly required she takes a tentative step out.

She's a graceful woman, his lieutenant, and she manages the first few steps with enviable pose. A dip in the ices textures sends her off balance and she swings her arms out in an attempt to right herself. He manages to catch hold of her arm before she does any real harm to herself and she scowls fiercely. He simply laughs, "Jesus, Wash, did no ever teach you to skate?"

"Of course not. And I didn't exactly have Shannon leading me around the ice till I got used to it."

"Do you _want_ me to drag you around like that?"

She shakes her head, looking momentarily torn. She wouldn't exactly mind him being so close to her. In the end her stubborn nature wins out, "No."

"Then you better get on improving that technique of yours."

"Your confidence is noted, sir."

He doesn't bother to hide his smile.

Wash, to her credit, manages fairly well. She never leaves his side but that is personal choice more than anything else. They haven't been at it too long before he catches her arm again, this time by choice. She manages to slow herself, but it does result in her crashing soundly into his chest. They're both braced for the impact and remain standing, though he retains the closeness the gaffe allows. In an uncustomary show of open affection, she loops her arms around his waist.

She's horribly lovely like that, the snow catching in her dark hair, her smile uncharacteristically open. It's a moment of light amidst the temporary darkness and he savors it. Locks this version of her away in his thoughts to bring out again when their situation inevitably takes a turn for the worse.

There's a crash somewhere behind them, and from the surprised cries and the unapologetically amused quirk of Wash's lips the Shannon's have taken a tumble. He turns enough to catch them out of the corner of his eye. Elisabeth is splayed across Jim's chest, trying to find purchase on the ice and return to her feet, her husband laughing despite the bruises he's undoubtedly sustained. She lets out a flustered, "Impossible man!" before trying, and failing, again. On the third try, Jim laughs, draws her to him to still her fidgeting and kisses her soundly.

She doesn't resist this either.

"Looks like they're having fun."

Wash chuckles from within the circle of his arms, leans her forehead against his shoulder. She's silent for a moment, as if considering her words, and then says, "Thank you." It's the second time she's done it today, her voice strikingly poignant.

"I can't make ice, Wash. I just found it. Nothing to thank me for."

And she tosses her head lightly in the way he's come to understand indicates her thoughts have taken an insubordinate turn and she's mentally berating him for being thick headed, "We needed this. Just a moment of…" she frowns, searching for a word that won't make her sound hopelessly sentimental, "Life."

He can't dispute it, simply settles for, "You're welcome."

For a moment she looks as if she's considering kissing him. But it would be something too (he hesitates to use the word familiar, because they are nothing if not intimately acquainted with each other, in every facet of the word) open for them, and so she gives his shoulders playful shove, distances herself from him. Gives him a positively challenging look before dashing off on the ice.

He glances between the Shannon's (back on their feet but still embracing, staring over himself and Wash blithely) and towards the retreating form of his friend (or whatever the hell she is to him now) and permits himself, in this one moment, to smile.

Because they'll return to the camp, and the pressure will rear its head anon. The cold will remain, and he will be the guardian of a homeless colony, he will be tasked to stand between what remains of his people, his family, and the army that chases them still. He will be the one responsible for retaking their home, impossible as it seems.

But for this moment, this one, impossible moment, he has this.

And that is enough to sustain him.


End file.
